


In the Years After

by LegendaryBard



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A confrontation with the missing Lone Wanderer goes poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Years After

The corridor is long, warm, with constant light. It reminds me almost of the one of the Vault's I'd gone looking through on a mission for Pre-War tech- it's almost eerily like it.

Down to every piece of steel and shape of the place. A faux Vault. That was just weird.

I was wondering to begin if all of this was a waste of time. Chasing legends for no purpose whatsoever.

But...

No. There had to be something to the rumor.

I hadn't killed two deathclaws and six molerats for a legend.

Especially not since they were cyborgs. Amalgamations of machine and creature. Someone was doing this to them.

Someone had stopped one of those deathclaws short from ripping my face clean off.

I wasn't here for legends. Something was in here, something dangerous, something that was worth the Brotherhood's time. There was a man, that I quietly prayed was dwelling within. Someone who we had seen before, then vanished like a ghost when his work was done.

I came to a simple door, which I opened.

It was a moderately large room; immaculate, steel, decorated with dozens of tables, notes, metals, projects, strewn all over them.

At the very end of the room was a massive computer screen, a swivel chair, a mole rat, and a person.

The chair swirls, leaving a...

Well.

He's certainly nothing impressive.

Five foot eight, perhaps nine. Not incredibly muscular, not incredibly deformed.

He's a scrawny man in a labcoat, and to my immediate interest, a Vault suit, with a Pip-Boy adorning his arm.

His eyes are a distinctive rosy color, his skin pale.

Albanism, maybe.

He has a good amount of snowy stubble on his jaw, long white hair kept in a ponytail. Despite the color of his hair, he can’t be any older than thirty.

"Why."

It's a very simple question he asks, said very quietly.

His voice is rather simple, too.

Not threatening, not vicious, just tired.

"The deathclaws and rats were there for a reason." The albino reaches to his side, and pulls out a weapon I do not have a name for.

Perhaps... A laser pistol? It's one-handed, smooth and chrome, emitting a slight glow. Blue, but the color is a warm shade of blue rather than something cold.

I level my laser rifle at his head.

"I wanted to be left alone."

Still tired.

"I built a Vault.”

"I built it in the middle of nowhere, and you people are still breaking down my door."

"I positioned deathclaws to stop you from getting in, had sentries and turrets..."

"But you. All of you bastards. You keep waltzing in like you own the place.”

"My ties to the Enclave, my ties to the Brotherhood, my ties to the Vault, they're all gone. I suggest you turn your back and walk away."

It hits me suddenly.

"My mission is to retrieve a man by the name of Ashton Heart."

A pause, and I continue: "Is that you?"

"It depends. If I say yes, will you let me stay here?"

"No."

"Then no."

"I respect your right to privacy, Sir, but the Brotherhood is in dire ne-"

"Can you not hear me? I said, I'm not working with the Brotherhood. You can drag my cold, dead body into your Verti-bird or airship and tell whoever sent you that I decided your personality didn't win me over."

"Please don't make this difficult."

"Wasn't that how you Brotherhood types liked it? Difficult?" His rosy eyes glint with something dangerous.

"The deathclaws, the rats, I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I held them back from killing you on purpose. I kept them at just enough of a leash that they wouldn't murder anyone. I don’t want to see anyone die. I never have.”

"But." His voice trembled with emotion, breaking the façade of composure.

"I am through being pushed around by people who think they can tell me what to do."

"The Overseer, for the first twenty-one years of my life."

"I was a slave for five months. Then kidnapped by the Enclave and forced to work for them for seven." 

"Then, your charming little organization yanked me back from the Enclave, and it was like a little game of tug-of-war. You held me prisoner. Not you in particular. You must’ve been a squire, an initiate. Or not in the Brotherhood yet. Your Brotherhood wanted to know everything about the Enclave, and even after you imprisoned me for a week, interrogated and humiliated me, you expected me to just fall in line with you when you let me go. To go to your side and trust you when what you did was tantamount to torture.”

His words became acidic. "Join the Brotherhood! Join the Enclave! Like two dogs snapping at each other, unable to reach because of leashes holding them back. I escaped from you, broke free from the yoke that’d been chafing my neck for so long. I got to taste freedom. Real, true, honest, freedom. There was peace in my wandering, for a single year. Blessed, until I was captured.” 

"Then back to my life as a slave.”

"I lost my foot during that time." He taps his heel with his toe for emphasis, and there’s a metallic clank.

"Then, when I'd managed to escape by salvaging enough scrap to build myself a new leg, I was caught by a psychopathic junkie.” 

"The cannibal freak forced me to find him a Vault to salvage, and I did, rightly so."

"While he was in a drug-induced haze, I broke one of his arms, stole everything he had, and here we are." He made a grand, sweeping gesture, emphasizing the entire Vaultlike retreat he’d built.

"To sum up this very long and obnoxious tale: I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere. I’m through with being chained down and ordered. Like I’m some kind of powerful weapon that has no purpose other than to be aimed and fired by more capable hands."

There’s a vicious coldness in his eyes, some haunted look. 

"This is being broadcasted to your Brotherhood friends, isn't it? I know you're fond of your listening devices- Living in a Brotherhood cell with no food for a week taught me that."

"Now, I'm going to make this explicitly clear."

"Do. Not. Come. After. Me. Again."

"You have a choice. Take one step forward, I will melt you into a puddle of goo. Turn back where you came from, you can live to see another day."

I took a step forward.

And, well.

He wasn't lying.


End file.
